


Recovery

by monolithjemma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Brotp, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Jemma Simmons is an odd bird, Lady Doctors of S.H.I.E.L.D., One True Pairing, PhDs are a superpower, Post- 3x02, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Shopping, True Love, girl talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-07
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-25 08:00:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4952632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monolithjemma/pseuds/monolithjemma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snapshots from Agent Jemma Simmons' long road to recovery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

For two and a half days, Jemma Simmons sleeps.

It’s in these hours that she constantly negotiates with the deep, dark pockets of her own mind, the memories that twist through moments like wispy aether, always looming, always threatening, always poised to take the shape of reality. When they become too dark, too close to solid, she jolts awake, and every time, she counts to three, takes a slow breath, and finds enough clarity to look at Fitz, move to touch him, ground herself against the unmistakable reality of his presence, his vigilance in just being there for her.

Bobbi helps situate her in a spare bunk they hastily cleaned out when the impossible happened and Fitz dragged her back to Earth through the gash in time and space. It’s stocked with clothing that isn’t hers, made for a woman half a foot taller, for a woman who exercises half the day, swathes of stretchy soft cotton that hang from her slight frame. A memory whispers to her that the old Jemma Simmons has an above-average fashion sense, and she imagines that someday she’ll once again care about stocking her closet with lovely silk blouses and dozens of pairs of practical, yet chic, black leather boots.

That day is not today. Right now, she’s grateful to be clean, if not well groomed, and comfortable, if not attractively clothed in the least.

Fitz dozes on her mattress, having given up the ridiculous chivalry of sleeping upright against the wall after the first night. When someone had been ready to give up his life for you, and you had been willing to do the same for him, concepts of physical boundaries and propriety tended to melt away into the realm of the unimportant.

Doctor Garner, Bobbi, and Coulson filter into the room as she dozes, and Bobbi whispers that she’s going to put something in Jemma’s IV to help her sleep. Jemma can’t muster the strength to say anything, or even nod. She lets her cheek drift to the pillow. As the drugs take effect, she hears the Director discussing her treatment. Highly unprofessional, in front of so many others, but after all they’ve been through, they’re basically family anyway.

Coulson is all business. “Of course, Agent Simmons needs to recover, and she should do whatever is necessary to get back to normal. But I need Agent Fitz available on Zephyr One. I can’t lose both of them.”

Doctor Garner scoffs. “In case it wasn’t obvious to you, Director, after all that’s happened here over the last few days, if you lose one you _do_ lose both. Do you think for one second that Fitz will be content to leave her on the Playground with me for the intensive therapy she so obviously needs? More importantly, do you think she’ll be able to recover without him by her side?”

“Isn’t that what we have you for, Doctor Garner?”

“I’m here to conduct her therapy, facilitate the groundwork for her to navigate her way through her own recovery. But I won’t be by her side day in and day out for the rest of her life. He has to learn how to care for her, just as much as she needs to learn to care for herself.”

 _The rest of her life._ That concept twists and flips through Jemma’s meandering thoughts, like a holographic engineering image she can enlarge, manipulate, examine with unlimited scrutiny. She finds, after some consideration, that Doctor Garner is correct. Fitz _is_ the rest of her life. It’s not a hope, it’s not an uncertain maybe-someday prospect, it’s simply the truth. And that realization, like his unwavering presence in this room with her, is a comfort. It’s a warm, heavy blanket and a soft place to land.

Her eyes drift closed again and, for the first time in many months, she descends into peaceful sleep.

Thirty-six hours later, Director Coulson has agreed to debrief FitzSimmons in the comfort of her – _their_ – bunk. As he thanks them for their reports and rises to leave, Fitz blurts out, “And, obviously, I’ll be taking some leave. To stay with her. I won’t be able to go into the field until she’s doing better.”

“I’ll keep you two together as long as I can, but I can’t promise I won’t need to send you into the field, Fitz. Unfortunately, the only people that’s an absolute guarantee for are married couples.” Coulson laughs, but then looks between the two of them, then his jaw drops, then snaps shut again. He shakes his head. “You know what? That’s not…Just rest, Simmons. Things seem calm for now, and we can spare Fitz for the foreseeable future. One step at a time. The most important thing is that you get better.” He stands and turns to the door. “It’s good to have you back.”

Jemma nods with a tight smile, and stares at the door while it snicks shut. With her next breath, she says, “I would, you know.”

“What?”

“Marry you.”

Fitz snorts. “Sure, if you had to. Can’t have you wakin’ up from those nightmares with nobody to-”

“If I had to, or…if you wanted to.” She interrupts because she can't stand his misundertanding. It’s as if the air in the room swirls and comes to a complete rest.

“Jems, I…”

“There’s nobody else for me," she rushes to explain. "Never has been, never will be.”

He stares at her, mouth gaping. Poor sweet man.

Jemma’s heart melts as she tries to elaborate. “I just…after all this, I…I need to say things that…that are true. You know. Just in case.”

“Shhh, Jems. Nothing’s going to happen.” His arm circles her shoulders and he pulls her to him, half because he doesn’t quite know what to say and half because he’s smiling much too widely to possibly be appropriate on day three after one’s girlfriend has nearly been irrevocably stranded on an ancient alien planet.

She sits up then, quickly, and he wonders if she’s having another one of her flashbacks. Her hands shake as if she is, but her eyes are steady and brave. “But…do you? Want to?”

Fitz’s heart swoops and swells to fill his whole chest. “Well, yeah. You have to know, Jemma. Of course I do. Have wanted that for a long time.” He pulls her tight to him and she sniffles into his neck. “Don’t you worry. We will. We have time. I know you’re afraid that we don’t, and to be honest, we haven’t had the greatest track record of sustaining peaceful moments between us. But I swear to you, from this minute, I’ll not leave your side unless you ask me to.”

She nods, pressing her nose to the underside of his jaw and memorizing his scent, the new strength in his embrace, the way her stomach flips when he tells her he loves her, even if he hasn’t said those exact words yet.

He is her forever, and that is more than enough.


	2. Mind (Part 1)

Mind (Part 1)

“Pardon?”

Jemma can’t quite believe what the kind-eyed doctor is asking her to do. Especially because she’s quite clearly very uncomfortable sitting on this couch, in this position. She is a doctor. She knows the biochemical reactions and synapse misfirings and broken connections in her brain that make her startle every small noise and wake up, sweating, panting, and flailing, after another one of those nightmares.

“I’d like us to try exposure therapy. The breathing exercises, the visualizations I’ve been giving you…”

“Have been quite helpful, thank you.” Jemma brushes invisible lint from her pants, the first properly-fitting ones she’s worn in a long time. Bobbi was so kind to lend her clothes in her first days back, but the soft, stretchy fabric made her feel like a blob. A close fit and a solid waistband bring at least some semblance of shape and order to things. Well, one thing, even if it is just her bottom. 

“Your biorhythm sensor begs to differ, Doctor Simmons.” Andrew knows what he’s doing. Doctors don’t talk down to other doctors. He’s just being honest. Jemma clings to this reminder. 

“True, I’ve been encountering some triggers on the base, but I’ve managed to hold it together.” She swallows a painful lump down her throat. Good thing he wasn’t watching her biorhythms now. 

“You have,” Doctor Garner says carefully. “But I’m not interested in stopping with you barely holding it together. It’s great that you’ve returned to the lab, but I’d like you to be able to eat, sleep, and exercise normally, as well. I care about you, and your future wellness, far more than I care about your mere efficacy to S.H.I.E.L.D.” 

He is a good man. A good doctor, and a good friend. Jemma blows out a shuddering breath as she repeats this mantra to herself. “Yes. Quite so. And…yes. Thank you.”

“So, let’s get started.” Doctor Garner shifts in his seat, settling in to stay. 

Jemma chuckles. “Can’t see how we’ll have much luck with exposure therapy, though, considering I was in an environment that was literally across the universe. Impossible to replicate.”

Doctor Garner gives her a gentle scolding look. “Doctor Simmons, please. I know that you read science journals like most people skim the newspaper. And that Biological Psychology is one of your favorites.”

She grimaced. He had her there. “Yes, well. Quite right. I suppose even I can’t argue with the Emory findings.” Jemma closed her eyes, filled her lungs slowly and pushed the breath out for a count of three. “Where shall I start, then?”

“According to the sensors, your most dramatic reactions seem to be triggered by loud noises. Is that right?”

Jemma nods, tight-lipped, staring into her hands, which are twisted together on her lap.

“Let’s start with whatever you see, hear, feel, and experience when one of those noises catches you off guard. What memory does that dredge up?”

“I just…say it?”

“Yes, in as much detail as you can. It’s okay to close your eyes. It’s alright to cry. Tell me what you feel and what you see. What you smell and hear, in that memory. The more sensation you include the better.”

Jemma’s stomach twists as she remembers the second part of the treatment outlined in the study Doctor Garner mentioned. “And…how will we record it?”

“Your biorhythm implant will take care of it. You’ll be able to replay it with some simple commands that I’ll show you. You did a wonderful job with the concept work on these things, by the way.” Doctor Garner taps the spot beneath his ear where his biorhythm sensor is implanted.

“Yes, and Fitz was a genius with their design. They’re quite posh.” She can’t help the swell of pride she feels at the work they did together, despite being a galaxy apart. 

Doctor Garner chuckles. “Yes. So, we can begin whenever you’re ready.”

Jemma nods, commanding her twisting stomach to relax. She takes a deep breath, closes her eyes, and pulls a memory – the one that sends her reeling back to the terrifying desolation of that planet, where any noise meant imminent death - from where it cowers in the back of her mind. 

“It always begins like this….”

*****

Fitz runs a soft thumb over her knuckles, bringing her back to the little dinner table he’s set up in her bunk. “Hey there. Where’d you go?”  
Jemma’s breath hitches in her throat. She dips a spoon into the tomato soup he’s brought, pulls it out, watches the steaming thick liquid drop back into the bowl. It’s the latest of his efforts to tempt her to eat, and it’s the best yet. She can’t stand food that’s anything less than hot, now, but chewing has been unpleasant, to say the least. She’s used to testing food against her tongue, to examining it before she dares to swallow it down.

“I…um. Today. With Doctor Garner.”

Fitz’s eyes narrow, and his jaw hardens in a way that would be imperceptible to anyone who hadn’t spent the past week memorizing every plane of him, reworking old memories of comfort and security into this slightly-altered Fitz-form, who makes something flutter low in her belly whenever she considers him. He’s somehow more man than he had ever been to her before, and the difference fascinates her. “Did he upset you?” Jemma can tell Fitz’s question is measured so as not to startle her, but aimed at eliminating any threat to Jemma adjusting to being back. 

She appreciates it, she does. But Jemma doesn’t need Fitz to go looking for her enemies. She holds them all inside her head, inside her ruined nerves, embodied in her twisted perceptions of threat and reality. 

“Not exactly,” she says, but when she sees the fire in Fitz’s eyes, she rephrases. “No. The memories upset me. Andrew is trying to help me…” not exorcise them. That would be wrong. She doesn’t want to banish the knowledge that she is strong, that she can survive anything, that, for the last year, she displayed more tenacity, strength, and determination to make it back home than she would ever imagine any human could. 

But she did. 

“It’s, um…exposure therapy?”

Fitz’s eyebrows shoot up as his chin tilts down. “He wants you to relive the trauma?”

“And listen to my account of it. Yes. Daily.” Her voice goes soft, and her heart swells with gratitude for this man in her life who reads scientific publications as ravenously as she does, who knows what exposure therapy is, what it entails. She’s never met anybody with the same photographic memory and information logging capacity as she has, but Fitz is special. He’s obsessive, and when he cares about a topic, his brain is nimbler than hers at teasing out all the relevant information and reworking it into something that perfectly fits the situation. 

Right now, that topic is Simmons’ traumatized brain. She knows he wants to fix it. She silently prays that he will wait for her to take the lead, so that they can work on fixing it together. 

And she figures now is as good a time as any. 

“I’m meant to listen to the recording tonight,” she says, softly, not daring to meet his eyes. 

“Right,” Fitz says, swallowing hard, giving her a searching look. His adam’s apple bobs, more prominent than she remembers it ever being. She wonders how it would feel if it moved, just so, against her cheek. “Right, well. I’ll just take these dishes to the kitchen, and-“

“You’ll come back. Here.” Jemma doesn’t even try to hide the pleading tone that’s worked its way into her words. She and Fitz aren’t simply best friends anymore – haven’t been for quite some time. 

They’re in love. 

They haven’t ever said as much, not in those words, but they both know it to be true. She can feel it. Still, knowing something for certain in one’s heart doesn’t automatically translate to knowing what to do with one’s hands, one’s lips, one’s sleeping arrangement.   
Toss in six months of being marooned on a perilous alien wasteland, the horrifying memories that come in its wake, and her indisputable need for human comfort, and Jemma has quite a conundrum. 

She and Fitz have been doing this dance for the last ten days, ever since he slept sitting up right by her side that first night, and the possibility of Fitz spending all his nights beside her wormed its way into her mind. Since then, he’s announced he’s leaving her to complete some mundane task – changing his clothes, fetching his tablet, depositing the dishes in the kitchen – and left it to her to tell him whether she wanted him to come back. 

She always does. 

There’s a foldaway cot in her bunk now, silently deposited there after Fitz’s first uncomfortable night. He’s slept there, on the rickety contraption of metal and musty twill, for the past eight nights. Every morning, she’s woken up in contact with him. A hand, or a foot. Their fingers intertwined. Two nights ago, their foreheads pressed together, his breath ruffling her eyelashes when she woke first. 

“I’ll come back,” Fitz reassures her, a relieved smile tugging at the corners of his lips. 

When he’s gone, she brushes her teeth with one of those horrible finger brushes Bobbi has brought her – the handle of a standard toothbrush feels too similar to the weapons she is all too good at fashioning and brandishing. She sighs, staring at herself in the mirror, and reminds herself that the rubber nubbly thing that fits over her finger is the least of her worries, just now. 

She traipses back into her room and feels her heart drop when she sees Fitz’s cot in its resting place against the wall. “That won’t do,” she mutters, crossing over to it, grabbing it and finding it surprisingly light. She stows it in the small closet tucked into the wall, where the absence of any of her clothing has been haunting her, anyway. 

Fitz is back in short order with a cup of chamomile for her, with just a splash of milk, as she used to like it. She hasn’t tried it again since she got back. For tonight, she decides that the scent of the herb infusing itself into the air around her is just what she needs. 

“So. How does this work?”

“Um. Well, according to my research, while I listen, it’s best that I feel comfortable. And safe. The exposure should be mental only, so that whenever the memories flood me…”

“…it helps you remember they’re just memories, and that they’re no longer real. Yeah. You, eh…you want to lie down, then?”   
Jemma nods, then scoots herself back into the all-white cocoon of bedding she’s made for herself, so far divorced from her sleeping conditions the past six months. The difference helps. It’s a reminder that this is reality, now. 

“And where do you want me to…?”

Jemma stretches her arms out to him. “Here. Please. Just…here. Beside me.” 

Fitz swallows hard, again, and Jemma thinks that the movement of his throat in concert with the stubble on his jaw just might be the most incredible thing she’s ever seen. 

He shucks off his shoes and lies on top of the blankets, his hip nearly extending off the mattress. 

“Fitz,” she says, pleading for him to understand with her eyes. When that only gets him to turn slightly toward her, she whispers, “Could you just…hold me?”

“’Course, Jems. Whatever you want.” Fitz stands up, his movements purposefully slow and smooth, and she’s grateful that, at least now, he’s thinking of whatever he can do that will make her feel safest. When he finally edges next to her under her covers, her body sings with warmth and the solid sureness of him, here, beside her, always beside her. She flips and notches her shoulder under his, lets out a long sigh as her cheek presses into his chest. Her leg wraps around his, and he responds with a short, deep hum. She feels his chest rumble when he does, and it sends a thrill through her.   
Someday, maybe soon, she’ll get him to make that noise on purpose. 

“Thank you,” she whispers. 

He drops a kiss at her crown. “Is it recorded on your biorhythm implant, then?”

She nods. “You ready?”

“Always,” he murmurs. It sounds like a promise, like a prayer, like an unbreakable vow. It wraps her in tendrils of certainty that she knows she will need, and she squeezes her arms around his torso in answer. 

When she commands the implant to play back the recording, she closes her eyes. She remembers the hellish landscape, the terrifying creatures, the absolute terror and hopelessness of it all again, the first time of hundreds she’ll have to do this to become in control of these memories, instead of the other way around. 

She cries, and she shakes, and through it all, Fitz holds her, and reminds her he’s back beside her, for good this time. 

Fitz is there, just as he always had been. The entire universe could change, but, she knows now, that is one thing that never, ever will.


	3. Body (Part 1)

Body (Part 1)

Within the first few days, Jemma feels the strength rebuilding through her limbs. 

Everyone is being so kind, wrapping her in a cotton ball of care and concern, making sure to keep their voices quiet and their movements slow, dimming the lights when she needs it. 

But she can’t relax. For six months, she held so much tension in her shoulders, her arms. Her legs were constantly primed to dash away at a moment’s notice. 

Now, the constant refrains of “rest up, heal, take all the time you need” are comforting, in one way. In another, though, she knows deep down they’re not the real key to re-adjusting to this world. 

She’s so different now. She can’t go back to the way things were, to the person she was. Agent Jemma Simmons, Biochemist, Level 5, religiously jogged a 5k four times a week and sometimes threw in push-ups and sit-ups for good measure. 

Jemma Simmons, unwilling long-term guest on a dark, hostile planet on the other side of the galaxy, had become a finely honed weapon, a surviving machine. Being ready to fight was what made her safe, what allowed her to keep hoping to one day go home. 

From the first day she cautiously walked through the lab, clinging to Fitz’s hand, slowly making the circuit with jerky steps and surreptitious perimeter checks every five seconds, she’s caught Bobbi watching her. Jemma knows that Bobbi can read her like a book – has known it since the day she tried, and failed, to convince Bobbi that she only saw Fitz as a friend. 

Bobbi sees the way Jemma’s fists clench invisible weapons, the way her arms jump with bursts of tightly-wound energy that has nowhere to go while she lies in bed, or tries to eat, or sits on Doctor Garner’s couch. The light treadmill exercise they’ve let Jemma do doesn’t help it, not much. She needs less steady and more reactive, less measured and more powerful. 

So, a few days later, Bobbi makes her way to Jemma’s bunk in the late afternoon. She knocks softly, and a few moments later, Jemma’s eyes peek through a tiny crack in the door, darting back and forth. When they land on Bobbi, she releases a breath. “Hi. Just a mo,” she says, ducking back inside for a second and then slinking out into the hallway. 

“I haven’t been letting Fitz sleep very much,” Jemma explains. “He’s finally dozed off.”

“Haven’t been letting him sleep, huh?” Bobbi raises an eyebrow and gives Jemma a mischievous smile. “I know what that’s like. When I haven’t seen Hunter for awhile, it’s like once we get back into the same room I can’t keep my hands off him. Dammit.” 

Jemma’s eyes flare wide and a blush creeps up her cheeks and to the tips of her ears. “Oh. No. No no. That’s not – we’re not – we haven’t – it’s not - erm…oh bullocks…”

“Oh, geez. Jems, I’m sorry. You were talking about the nightmares. Of course you were.”

Jemma huffs out a breath, grateful that Bobbi gets it now. “Yes. Anyhow. Everything okay? In the lab?”

“Yeah, in the lab. Knee’s bothering me though, and when it does, I’m supposed to do slow laps around the Zephyr. I feel weird doing it alone, so…thought I’d see if you were up for joining me.”

Jemma nods once, slowly, then quietly opens the door a crack again. She peers at Fitz, and after several seconds, nods again. “He’ll be out for awhile. Just don’t want him to startle if he wakes and I’m gone, he’s been so…and with all he’s doing for me…”

Bobbi smiles, then holds up her wristwatch. “I’ll just send him a message that you’re with me.”

“Oh! Yes. Thanks. Forgot we had those, now.” Jemma has tears in her eyes, and Bobbi wonders if she shouldn’t be lying down, after all. But she starts walking as she taps the message into the watch, waiting to see if Jemma follows. She does. 

“You’ll get one as soon as we can spend more than a day at the Playground. You are one hundred percent a part of this team. No worries.” 

“Oh, it’s not that,” Jemma sniffles. “Not so much that, anyway. It’s more…all I’ve missed, you know?”

“Yeah,” Bobbi agrees carefully. “I…do not like missing things.”

“Aw. You’ll be back in action soon.” Jemma considers Bobbi, admires her steadiness and speed. Compared to the Agent Morse she knew before her impromptu leave on the alien planet, lying completely still and numb in a hospital bed, this one is doing amazingly well. 

“Yeah. It used to be about that,” Bobbi says, motioning for them to take a turn to the left. “Now it’s…more complicated.”

“Ah. Hunter.” 

“You told me once that it was a roller coaster ride.”

“Love? Yeah. And you asked me if it was worth it,” Bobbi replies with a wistful smile. 

“Well?” Jemma asks softly.

“It’s still not over,” Bobbi smiles. “But even if it ends really badly…yeah. It’s worth it. “ Bobbi nudges Jemma’s shoulder. “Do stairs with me?”

They climb up and down the stairs thirty times, while Bobbi tells Jemma stories about the first time she tried this, when she made it five steps in twenty minutes before she was crying too hard, and her leg shook far too much to keep going.

“It was terrifying. It was two weeks after my surgery, and the surgeons told me that it would take a month to be able to do one stair. But I was different, you know? I was a super spy. I could kick five guys’ heads in before any of them could pull a gun. Stairs were easy. Something normal people did, people who couldn’t throw a punch to save their lives.”

“Quite right,” Jemma says, admiringly. “And look. You did five steps in half as much time. That makes you over 200% more incredible than a normal person. “

“And I was still devastated. Disappointed didn’t even begin to cover it. Ashamed, and guilty that Hunter was spending his time crouched next to me on the stairwell while all I could do was cry. Shit, I couldn’t even go to the bathroom without him helping me sit down on the toilet.”  
'  
“It’s quite amazing, then, that you’ve made this much progress in six months. You’re a different woman.”

“And I don’t need Hunter anymore. The crazy thing is that the whole damn experience showed me how much I really do need him. Just, you know. Not for the toilet anymore.”

Jemma laughed, but Bobbi didn’t miss the tear that trickled down her cheek. She may have been a scientist, but blatant metaphors were certainly not lost on her.   
It touched her, too, that even though her relationship with Fitz was nowhere near as tumultuous as Bobbi and Hunter's, even with comas, brain damage, undercover work, and accidental planetary exile thrown in, it was still basically the same. “Thank you,” Jemma said quietly, after they made it to the bottom of the stairs again. “That helps.”

“I’ve been where you are. Not exactly, of course, but helping save S.H.I.E.L.D. during the Hydra takeover and torture at the hands of Ward are only a couple of the traumatic things I’ve dealt with. I know that sometimes it can be better to listen than to talk.” Bobbi squeezed Jemma’s shoulder. “Come on. We have more work to do.”

When Bobbi opens the next door, Jemma stops cold. She stares at the heavy black punching bag, framed by free weights and a rowing machine in the background. 

“Bobbi,” she stammers. “I failed my field assessment.”

“Probably wouldn’t if you took it today,” Bobbi says coolly, planting her hands on her hips. “Not after your extreme wilderness excursion.” 

Jemma’s lips twitch. “That was…different. Quite a lot of cardio, what with the constant fleeing for my life. And not a lot of opportunity to focus on building muscle, considering the acute malnutrition.”

“I know you had part of weapons training down to a tee out there, though.” Bobbi looks at Jemma, hard, and Jemma’s eyes flash to floor. Bobbi steps closer, lowers her voice. “I found that little stake you had, your first night back. It’s okay. But, you know. You can’t keep doing that.”

Jemma has kept doing that, sort of. She has a collection of things that she can turn into weapons at a moment’s notice, if the ship is taken by Hydra again, or if it crashes into the ocean and she has to fend off swarms of angry squid, or if one of her fellow agents on the Zephyr is a sleeper waiting to be activated. Or if the monolith somehow finds her again. 

And they’ll be ready for her, too, when she goes back to that planet. She doesn’t want to, but it has to be done. And this time, she’ll have weapons. 

“I…can’t help it. I feel safer that way. Those kinds of weapons…they were all I had.”

“I know,” Bobbi says. “Which is why we’re here. I’m going to teach you to do more damage with your bare hands and your knees and your heels than a little stake could ever do. Okay?”

“So I’ll always be ready,” Jemma says, mulling the offer over. 

“Weapon or not,” Bobbi says. “And with your nightmares, for Fitz’s sake? It has to be ‘not.’ Trust me on this.”

“Okay,” Jemma says, softly. She wants Fitz sleeping beside her more than she wants to sleep holding a weapon. Logic has been insisting this to her for days now, but it takes Bobbi telling her for it to really sink in. 

Bobbi squeezes her shoulder, something she knows is okay because she’s seen Fitz do it. Jemma doesn’t melt into her touch like she does Fitz’s, but she doesn’t panic, either. It’s a good start. She crosses over to the wall and selects the smallest pair of boxing gloves, then walks back to Jemma with them. 

Jemma’s head shakes back and forth violently. “Nothing on my hands. I need my fingers free.”

Bobbi respects that Jemma seems to know what she needs – and doesn’t need – to fight. It’s a good first step. “Okay, but we’re going to wrap them, at least. Your doctor-brain knows we have to do that.”

While Bobbi carefully spreads Jemma’s fingers and stretches tape over her knuckles and crossing her wrist, Jemma says, “I haven’t thanked you. For your doctor brain. For helping Fitz, and for helping me.”

“I was in the lab with him, but I’m not you, Jemma.”

“I know,” she says, smiling with a distant look in her eye. “But he needs someone, you know. Beside him. Someone who understands him, at least a little. And he told me how you –“

“It was nothing,” Bobbi protests, gently picking up Jemma’s other hand. “You would have done the same thing, if it was Hunter freaking out over me.”

“Even so. It wasn’t nothing. You – you were the only one who didn’t think he should quit looking for me. You made it possible for him to keep going. That means the world to me.”

Bobbi is silent, wrapping Jemma’s other hand. “You’re an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., Jemma. We wouldn’t be where we are without the contributions you made. There was no way I was going to act like you weren’t worth at least trying to save. Plus…I love you. It’s good to have friends. Real ones. You know?”

Another tear drops from Jemma’s eye. “I know.”

“Alright. Enough of this,” Bobbi says, holding her palms flat, out toward Jemma. “Let’s test those wraps.”

Jemma balks. “You want me to…hit you?”

Bobbi shrugs. “Just to test the wraps. Then I’ll introduce you to Mr. Stiffy over there.” She motions toward the punching bag, grinning at the old joke from Specialist School. “Plus, there is no way you could hurt me. Trust me.”

“Is that a challenge?” Jemma teases. But Bobbi notices that Jemma instinctively staggers her feet, giving herself a solid fighting base, and she doesn’t need to be told to raise her hands to defend her own face. She may be untrained, but she’s not inexperienced. Bobbi’s heart pangs, realizing this. 

“You’re looking good already, Doc. And yeah, it’s a challenge. Damn right it is.” 

Jemma’s not the strongest hit Bobbi has felt, not by a long shot. But she is quick, and has nearly perfect aim, and in this fighting stance, there’s a fierce confidence in her eyes that Bobbi would not want to tangle with on her worst day. And that’s a damn good start. 

Bobbi works with Jemma for the next half hour, teaching her how to break the nose of a man twice her size with one palm strike, how to turn her belly to the floor and kick straight back to make her heel into a lethal weapon. 

Jemma hears the satisfying smack of her palm and elbow against the punching bag, watches it bobble wildly when she lands a perfect kick. At the end, when her still-recovering body won’t let her throw one more punch, she doubles over, watches sweat drip from her hairline onto the squishy gym mat below. 

“Have you done your five steps?” Bobbi can’t keep the smile off her face as she approaches. Jemma is going to be an amazing fighter, if she wants to be. She’ll be unstoppable, lethal. Just like Bobbi is. 

“Perhaps six steps,” Jemma pants, standing upright. “But you were right. It feels good.” With every smack of the bag, every grunt as she swung her shin into a roundhouse kick, Jemma felt something infuse itself in her limbs that resting in bed could never bring her – power. 

Bobbi nods. “Good. Tomorrow? We’ll do this again?”

Jemma smiles. “Only if you’ll tell me more about the roller coaster.”

“Oh, babe,” Bobbi laughs, slinging an arm around Jemma’s sweaty neck and leading her to the exit. “This damn ride never ends. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.”


	4. Soul (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Apparently, love has the identifying symptoms of nausea, panic, anxiousness, and lurid dreams.”
> 
> Or: Daisy and Jemma go shopping.

Jemma is fed up with wearing slouchy, stretchy cotton. She looks like she’s wandering round the Zephyr in her pajamas, like some kind of mental patient. Which, after all, she supposes she is. But she’s also an Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., once (and hopefully future) head of its Science Division, holder of two PhDs, and wanting desperately to look as attractive as she once had. 

After all, Fitz didn’t fall in love with a sloppy doddering crazy person. More importantly, a positive self-image was an important part of her recovery process, according to Andrew Garner. That was the only reason he’d allowed Bobbi to throw her into such rigorous workouts with the punching bags – they made Jemma feel powerful. The value of seeing oneself through a positive lens could not be discounted.

Jemma used this rationale to convince Daisy to take her shopping on one of their routine stopovers in New York City. Daisy had been distant since Jemma got back to Earth, but Jemma knew she was busy with work. She’d promised that the trip would only take two hours, maximum, and that she’d replenish Daisy’s snack stash as a reward. Jemma had smiled the moment she’d seen her old friend won over to the idea of a shopping trip, like people with normal lives had all the time. 

Jemma has six months of back pay in her bank account, and at least one month’s worth is burning a hole in her pocket. Daisy grins when she hears this, installs Jemma in one of the cushy dressing rooms, and goes to work filling her arms with black pants, cardigans, feather-light blouses in neutral colors, and sturdy boots. 

Ten minutes later, she hefts the dozens of hangers on the dressing room’s hooks, plunks the shoes down in a pile, and spreads her arms out, grinning at Jemma. “Do I know you, or what? You always did have a superb fashion sense. Did I get it right?”

Jemma stares at the black-and-white, button-down, form-fitting dark pants mass before her and bursts into tears.

Daisy’s eyes go wide, and within seconds she’s on her knees in front of Jemma, gingerly circling her arms around the sobbing woman’s shoulders. “Oh, God. What did I….are you okay? Is it the lights in the dressing room? Too many people outside? You’re safe in here, I swear…”

Jemma’s shoulders heave for an excruciating near-minute. Daisy is starting to wonder if maybe she should call Fitz off the plane, when Jemma speaks. “I’m so sorry. It’s just…I basically wore that outfit for the last six months and change, nonstop. Seeing similar things…all I can think about is whether I’d be able to survive in them. And then I remember what I had to use my old clothes for and…”

Jemma starts to cry again, though this time it’s much shorter-lived. Daisy has the presence of mind to find her some tissues, and Jemma shakes her head, looking at what Daisy’s selected. “They really are beautiful. This whole time I’ve been back on Earth, I thought I wanted my old clothes back, you know? I would definitely have picked out all of these things a year ago, so you really are right on the money. But when I see it all in front of me…I just remember who I was. I feel like that wardrobe belongs to a different person.”

“You don’t have to be the same person you were, even if you feel like everyone wants you to be. Believe me. Coulson still can’t even get over me changing my name, and that is just oozing with symbolism.”

“He is having quite a bit of trouble with that, isn’t he?” Jemma smiles. She suspects Coulson should speak with Doctor Garner himself. There was only so much upheaval and change one man could take in such a short time, even if he was the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. 

“But oh my God, can you imagine if we stayed the same person our whole lives?” Daisy throws her hands in the air. “I mean, two years ago I was a small-time hacktivist who fangirled over superheroes and lived in a van. And now…”

“You’re head of your own S.H.I.E.L.D. division, and an actual superhero yourself?” Jemma smiles. 

“Yeah, and I definitely have a sweet new wardrobe.”

Jemma sees the point, but her transition had been in quite the opposite direction from Daisy’s. Jemma feels a tired sigh push out of her lungs. “But Fitz…I just keep thinking about Fitz. He did all those things…risked his life…for the person I used to be. This,” Jemma says, sweeping her arm over the silk blouses and rugged pants, “this is the person he knows. Not me. Whoever I am now. What if…since I’ve changed, those feelings change too?” 

“Have things changed for you? I know you were falling fast for him before you…um…left home. But if you don’t feel that way, you should tell him. Sooner, rather than later. It’s okay if you don’t, and I know you keep so much to yourself, but this is different, now. He deserves to know, so that he can start to get over –“

Jemma’s eyes widen to saucers, and she would have stopped Daisy after the first sentence, if she wasn’t so completely shocked at the idea that she doesn’t love Fitz anymore. Finally, she gets some words out. “No, no. I – I love him, that much I know.”

Daisy shrugs. “Things change. People change. You’re allowed to change your mind. You didn’t always feel that way. You told me so, at the Academy, that you’d never thought of him as anything more than friends.”

Jemma presses her lips tight together, trying to decide if she should tell Daisy. If she needs to hear this, or if it’s even important. But she doesn’t think this conversation can go farther without it, and Lord, she needs to talk this through with someone other than the demons in her own head. “Do you remember that night in the Boiler Room? When you asked me about that guy, and whether we had ever –“ 

Daisy laughs. “Yeah, that smokin’ hot Science Prince in perfectly fitting pants? How could I forget?”

“Do you remember what I said?”

“You said you went out with him once. Or that you slept with him once?”

“It’s not important which,” Jemma rushes to clarify. “Do you remember why I said I’d agreed to go out with him in the first place?”

Daisy isn’t wonderful at remembering details, but this one was weird enough that she can recall it. “Yes, actually. You said his face was symmetrical and he had a low body fat percentage. Which, I guess translates to ‘hot,’ but…  
”  
“Exactly. Sometimes, I can be a bit…odd. Most notably in…interpersonal encounters.”

Daisy tilts her head, silently asking for more explanation.

“I don’t always understand – or grasp – the finer points of body language. And other unspoken things. Since I was a child, I was rubbish at making friends. Could never understand that they were trying to be friends with me, or conversely, when they did not want to be friends under any circumstances. Fortunately, laws of nature govern even friendship interactions, on some level. And you know I love rules…”

Daisy laughs. “Yes, I do know that.” 

“Well, when everyone around me started to show interest in romantic relationships, I was always quite embarrassed that I didn’t know how to identify the feeling everyone else always talked about, where you want to touch someone, kiss them, and so on."

“Attraction?”

“Precisely. So I researched the phenomenon of physical attraction between humans, its sources and driving forces, to increase my chances of success in the realm of dating. Obviously, it wasn’t successful at all.”

Daisy gaped at her now. “So you’re telling me that you literally determined who you wanted to date based on textbook definition of hotness?”

“Yes, and I felt quite lucky that it seemed that I fit under that definition myself, at least for a majority of human men. You see, I have high cheekbones, full lips, an alluring waist-to-hip ratio, and slightly larger-than-average breasts for my frame.”

Daisy snorted, shaking her head with a smile. “Yes, you are gorgeous. Obviously you know that. Which, you know. Good for you.”

“So I basically had my pick of men at the Academy, for a while anyway. Until word got out what a strange person I was.”

Daisy frowned, but Jemma quickly interrupted. “No, please. No pity. I do think that, during my Academy years, I was too focused on my work and quite too young to jump into that kind of relationship anyway. And then, of course, there was the matter of Fitz.”

“What about Fitz?”

Jemma sat back in her chair, feeling utterly flummoxed. “I wanted to be with Fitz. All the time. He was so interesting, and we worked so well together, I just chalked that…impulse, I suppose it was…I chalked it up to being driven to do well in my field. Once we were at Sci-Ops, we were set up as partners, and barely left each other’s sides, we were worked so hard. I do remember a strange feeling in my stomach whenever we did well on a project or an exam, which was the only time he ever really smiled at me, but I assumed that was the thrill of success.”

Daisy nods. “What about your free time?”

“What little of it we had, we spent together, too.”

“Which, obviously, nobody forced you to do.”

“I didn’t have any other friends, not really. I was still odd as ever. We both tried to branch out at first, I think, but he was just the only one I was comfortable with. I felt like I could really be me, and finally relax, around him. Doesn’t mean I ever thought of him as anything else.”

“So you don’t love him. Didn’t. Or something.”

Jemma rolls her eyes with a smile. “I’m not finished. There was the matter of graduating from Sci-Ops. Everyone talked about getting our assignments. We could make requests for placement, but we weren’t guaranteed any specific location or job. I started to get a bit…twitchy. I was obsessed with figuring out where Fitz and I could possibly get assigned. The more I researched, I realized that there was not a single base, team, or even undercover job that had need of someone like me and someone like Fitz. The chances of us getting assigned to the same project were basically zero. I was so agitated about it I actually vomited in Fitz’s bathroom.”

“Well, did you tell him?” 

“Just that I thought I had the flu. It was all so confusing,” Jemma groans, burying her face in her hands. “Luckily we got the communication from Coulson the next day. He wanted both of us, together. It wasn’t until the end of the job description that I realized we’d be living on a plane. And I hate heights – hate them. It somehow didn’t matter to me, though – I ran to Fitz and convinced him to take the assignment with me. Took hours of begging, too, but I did it.” 

“Did you ever think he felt the same way?”

“Not when we loaded onto the Bus and the first thing he did was fawn over you for months,” Jemma says with a sigh. “It made me all twitchy, and rather annoyed, really, and I thought for sure this was my signal, that we were growing up and growing apart. Suddenly there was something that was more interesting to him than our work. But then…”

“He tried to jump out of an airplane to save you?”

Jemma lets a short laugh loose. “No, it wasn’t that. I knew I’d do the same for him, as I would have since I’d known him. Besides, it’s not like that had me going all moony over Ward.” 

“Fair point,” Daisy says. 

“No, things really started to get very confusing with the dreams.”

Daisy’s eyebrows shoot up. “Dreams?”

“Dreams,” Jemma says with a meaningful look right in Daisy’s eyes. “At first I rationalized that my sex drive was naturally increasing with age – you know, testosterone levels in young women reach their peak in mid-to-late twenties, which is where I was – and that Fitz was the one man who ever touched me on a regular basis. And I’d known him so long, my subconscious was best able to imagine him – his hands, and, um, his lips - doing things he didn’t typically do. With me. Um…to me.”

“Jemma Simmons,” Daisy says with a playful smile. “Your subconscious is an absolute beast.”

“Yes, well. Then came the Hydra takeover, and the med pod, and in the space of two seconds, Fitz was basically telling me he loved me and I was just beginning to realize that all those little clues put together meant that I loved him too. Apparently, love has the identifying symptoms of nausea, panic, anxiousness, and lurid dreams.” Jemma’s smile is wistful, far away, even as her eyes fill with tears. 

“Jemma. What’s wrong?” Daisy reaches out to cover one of Jemma’s hands with her own. 

“It’s just…he’s nearly died to save me. Three times now, and maybe more I don’t know about. He never wanted to be here. Never wanted this life. He wanted to stay safe in a lab. If I had let him, he may have met someone perfectly lovely and been married and settled by now. Instead, he has this. Hydra and ATCU and…me. A mess.” Now tears stream from her cheeks. 

“But he loves you, Jemma. I don’t know if he’s said the words, but it doesn’t matter. Everyone who sees him with you knows it.”

“He shouldn’t!” Jemma’s fist pounds the bench beside her. “For all I’ve put him through, he shouldn’t. I know I’ll only hurt him again, and again. We seem doomed to it. He deserves better. Calmer, safer things.”

Daisy squeezes Jemma’s hands. “Maybe. But he wants you. He never, ever stopped believing that you were out there. Never stopped trying to get you back home. You don’t owe him anything, that’s not what I’m saying. But he would never have done those things if he didn’t love you. If he didn’t want you by his side.”

More tears stream down Jemma’s cheeks. Daisy waits for her breathing to calm again, rubbing her back and sitting silent and steadfast by her side. Then, Jemma whispers, “Well, if he’s going to decide something that utterly crazy, I should at least make myself attractive whilst doddering around the Zephyr. Hmm?”

“Yeah. And maybe, you know. You should tell him all this sentimental crap you just told me. A guy who jumps through a portal to the other side of the universe just for the chance to hold hands with you is not going to be afraid to hear you use your words when it comes to feelings. Okay?”

Jemma nods with a soft smile. 

Daisy claps her hands. “That’s my girl. So, some different clothes. Maybe…some more color? More interesting lines? I mean, more interesting ones than those provided by your alluring waist-to-hip ratio and fabulous rack.”

Jemma blushes, even though she’s still dabbing at her eyes. “Yes. Fabulous.”

“Wait here,” Daisy says, scooping up all the clothes she brought in on her first try and clomping out of the dressing room. 

***

Jemma walks back onto the Zephyr, looking exhausted but with a smile on her face and spark in her eyes that Fitz hasn’t seen since…well, since before. He grins at Jemma in greeting, and nods his thanks to Daisy when she heads for Jemma’s bunk to stow away her armfuls of shopping bags. 

When he stops being amazed by the sheer sight of her, here, in the flesh – something he’s still getting used to being a reality – he becomes a believer in the difference an outfit change can have on someone’s entire attitude. She wears deep orange pants that drop in a straight line to the ground, yet stretch beautifully over her curves, and a white shirt that clings to her sides yet somehow magically drapes gracefully in tiered swoops, stopping just beneath her collarbones, covering her shoulders but leaving the perfect curve of her neck open. 

She is absolutely lit up, and even if just for one moment, she looks like the old Jemma, flooded with confidence that makes her all the more beautiful. She stands straight, and her smile doesn’t look strained in the least. 

Fitz clears his throat, holds a hand out to her. “Did you get some new things, then? Feeling a bit more freshened up?”

Her eyes flick down nervously. She slides a ballet-flat clad foot forward a few inches, twisting the toe nervously on the Zephyr’s metallic floor. “It’s a bit of a change. Some more color, and…I’ve had quite enough of button-downs and cardigans for the foreseeable future, I think.” 

“Yes, well, that’s the uniform on that alien planet. Not here. I’d say any change from that has to be for the better, hm?” Her eyes blink up at him, still questioning. “You’re beautiful, Jems. Always are.”

Jemma draws in a deep breath, squeezes his hand. “Can we have tea? I’d like…it would be good if we could just…talk a bit.”

Fitz’s adoring smile is all the answer she needs. Maybe becoming someone a bit different wasn’t the worst thing, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter references one real life experience of mine and one headcanon. 
> 
> I once had a medical emergency where I collapsed and nearly died. For months and months, every time I saw the shirt I'd been wearing hanging in my closet, I started to hyperventilate. I thought Jemma might want a wardrobe overhaul. I got some ideas from this:  
> http://laserboyfriend.blogspot.com/2012/10/how-to-dress-for-conference-like.html
> 
> Jemma's comments about dating, attraction, and love reflect my headcanon that she displays traits of Aspberger's, even if she isn't one hundred percent diagnosable. It's based on the episode "Seeds," among other things, and you'll see that referenced a bit here.


	5. Soul (Part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***spoilers for 3x03 in author's notes only!!!***
> 
> I don't know, you guys. I had plans for lots more chapters, but of course those plans stupidly assumed that Jemma would be okay and, you know, stay with Fitz. On Earth. Safe. 
> 
> So. 
> 
> After 3x03, I've been having a really rough time in general. I didn't know what to make of any of their interactions, and their whole relationship felt so...uncertain. And now that she wants to go back to the hell-planet? I'm just really frustrated and I don't think I can write much more until it feels a bit safer to get attached to these two science nuggets. 
> 
> (Yes, I know it sounds ridiculous. Yes, it's definitely unhealthy to be this emotionally attached to fictional characters. But I figure if anyone understands, it's you guys.)
> 
> Anyway, this'll be my last chapter on this fic, and it was written from my own personal la-la land of "everything will be okay by the end of the season." So. Here you go. 
> 
> And thank you for all your comments and love. They really do mean the world to me.

Soul (Part 2)

Strangely enough, Jemma feels most grounded when they are in the air, now. Something about the low humming buzz the engines infuse to the metal shell surrounding her feels like a happy medium between the Earth she once knew and the planet that had imprinted itself onto her memory.

When he can leave the lab early enough, Jemma likes to curl up against Fitz’s side and watch the sunset pain bold colors across the sky out their tiny window. The ever-changing colors remind her of the times when the sky was the only thing that connected the two of them, and remind her of how far they’ve come.

“Do you remember the day I came back to Earth?” Jemma’s lips brush Fitz’s neck, and even though it’s been months since the first time she did this, it still takes his breath away.

“Best day of my life,” Fitz replies. “Couldn’t forget a single detail.” He brushes his lips against the tip of her nose and she rewards him with a sigh and a soft smile.

“Tell me,” she says dreamily. She asks him this, from time to time, when she’s anxious about something or having an off day, like it’s her tether to this world. Fitz so desperately wants to be that for her, so he tells her again, even though it’s not so good for his nerves.

The words spill off his tongue, the description of how it felt for the team to pull her away from him, out of the monolith’s pit, and onto a stretcher – like they had taken away his ability to breathe. He tells her about how his whole body shook for hours and hours after she had finally been debriefed and sedated, how Bobbi had recognized it as “mission fever,” the body’s coming down from staying in fight-or-flight mode, with its overload of adrenaline, for a prolonged period. Eventually, he’d gotten a sedative too.

His voice cracks when he remembers aloud how he found her after that first night back on the Zephyr, with her head pillowed on his thigh and her fingers twisted in the leg of his pants. He berates himself all over again for not realizing that the lab would be far too much for her to handle, with its centrifuges and bustling white coats and clinking test tubes, and she makes a comforting hum in his neck. All water under the bridge now, this reassurance says. The memory of that night in the restaurant pushes even more regret into his tone. He laughs at how ridiculous he was to expect her to be able to choose something to eat off a fancy menu after six months of eating space ferns. “I thought it would make you feel normal – help you come back to yourself.”

“I’m still not back to myself,” Jemma says, her voice straining at the edge of a sob. “I don’t think I ever will be.” A single tear escapes her eye, and no more. Jemma’s always been excellent at holding her feelings inside.

“Which self do you mean, Jems? The one who stepped on Coulson’s Bus three years ago?”

Jemma shrugs. “I s’pose.”

“Well then I’m not back to myself, either. Being on this team changes people, Jemma. You know that.”

“I know,” she whispers. “But I’m not the person you met anymore. I’m not the person you…” she still can’t bring herself to say the words. To believe them, even though they’d been declared in soft voices and whispers and groans a hundred times since that day she came back to him. Since she came home.

“Not the person I fell in love with?”

“Right,” she says, the single, heavy syllable catching in her throat.

“That’s true. Not the first time anyway. But then I fell in love with you again,” he says, kissing her temple, “and again,” as his lips brush her jaw, “and again.” Finally, his mouth presses to hers, holding gentle and steady, searing promises into her skin.

When they finally pull apart, Jemma draws back, looking into his eyes. She checks for a certain sparkle in them, the unspoken signal that hasn’t ever changed, in all the years that she’s known him – he’s right here, right now, waiting to hear anything she has to say. It’s there, and her heart grows to bursting. “You left something out,” she says, her lips so close to his that his breath tickles them.

“Did not,” he murmurs, leaning in for another kiss. But Jemma pulls back. They haven’t talked about this since it happened, but she thinks, after months of therapy with Doctor Garner, training with Bobbi, and slowly working back up to a full day of working in the lab, she’s ready. More importantly, she thinks he’ll be ready to take her seriously.

This thing Jemma’s about to say to him used to feel like a matter of life or death to her, like she needed to know how he felt about it so she could breathe. But she has fought through that, taking everyone’s messages of _patience, patience, patience_ to heart. Now, she doesn’t need it, but she wants it so badly that she feels it in every single cell of her body. All of her being is singing to, at least in one way, belong to Fitz, and to have him belong to her. Officially.

“You did leave something out,” she whispers, taking in a shuddering breath. “I said…I told you…erm…”

Fitz is patient, keeping his breaths steady. He, of course, knows what he left out of his retelling. Jemma’s words in the midst of that morning’s surreal fog are one of his clearest memories. He decided that day that she would have to be the one to bring the subject up again, but that when she did, he would be ready.

“I said that I’d marry you,” she finally blurts out, her forehead pressing to his collarbone, her breath steaming into his shirt. “If you wanted to.”

Fitz’s lips twitch up at the corners with the memory. Yes, when she said that, she was reeling from six months of trauma. No, he couldn’t take her words at face value that day. But face value hadn’t mattered to him then. What had mattered was the underlying message – Jemma’s “maybe there is” from before her unplanned extra-planetary exile had somehow changed to “you’re my forever.”

Fitz slides two fingers under her chin, nudges it up so that she’s looking at him. Jemma’s bottom lip quivers, and his heart bursts with love for this incredible woman, who had come back to him again and again, who never gave up on him when everyone else would have.

“And you’re saying…that still stands?”

“It does,” she says with a strained voice, and the tears pooling on her lower lids nearly undo him.

He kisses her, hard, for one second, then pulls back. “Don’t. Move,” he whispers.

Jemma bites her lip, which will be incredibly sexy as soon as the anguish that caused it is over. Fitz slides open the drawer of the small table beside his bed and reaches all the way to the back corner, where he’s kept a small velvet box since the week after Jemma returned.

The whole thing should have felt crazy, walking into Tiffany’s on their routine stopover in New York and declaring that he needed a very particular sort of engagement ring, and he had to take it with him today. He should have sounded insane even to himself, instructing the sales clerk that it had to lie flush against the lady’s finger, so that it wouldn’t be in danger of getting caught on any lab equipment or piercing safety gloves. It should have, but it didn’t, because Fitz was nothing if not one hundred percent sure that Jemma Simmons was the only woman he would ever want. Besides, after he’d held a restaurant reservation open for the better part of seven months, this felt almost reasonable.

So, after he waited for it to be sized for Jemma’s delicate finger, he paid cash for the four-carat diamond encrusted band, with a solitaire nestled in so it was flush with the surface. He didn’t flinch once, steadily slipping it into his coat pocket, and then his nightstand, where it had remained until this moment.

Fitz turns back to her, holding her hands in his, pressing the box between their palms. Jemma’s lip still trembles, and his heart nearly breaks. He needs to be the one to say something, now.

“I remembered what you said, Jemma. How could I forget? You weren’t ready to make that decision then, but I was. Even before knowing how your recovery would go, I knew I wanted to be yours. Forever.”

She gasps when he opens the box and holds it out for her, as though she actually thought it might hold a piece of chocolate or a damn charm bracelet or anything besides a diamond ring. Her hand trembles as he finally pulls the ring out himself and slips it on her finger, and the sobbing starts when he pulls her tight to him, cradling her and whispering adorations into her hair.

When Jemma finally comes back to herself, she wipes her eyes and lets out a short laugh, then grins through her lingering sniffles. “Right, then. Should we see Coulson?”

“Right this minute?”

“I don’t know about you, Leo Fitz, but I’ve waited long enough for this.”

“To tell Coulson we’re getting married?”

“No, you berk.” She pushes his chest lightly and shakes her head with a smile, as though it’s obvious.

“Coulson’s got to have some rank that’s high enough for a task as simple as this. He can marry us.”

 

And so, at 10:32 PM on a quiet Tuesday night, as the Zephyr One soundlessly soars somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, Fitz and Jemma become Leopold and Jemma Fitz-Simmons. Fitz tears up when Jemma says “in sickness and in health,” and Jemma lets out a watery squeak of surprise when Coulson cheekily adds, “on this planet or across the universe” to the standard set of vows. Coulson was only able to scribble those vows on a spare scrap of paper with the aid of the collective memories of the witnesses – a beaming, bouncing Daisy, a visibly moved Mack, a sighing Bobbi standing beside her bed-headed Hunter – and that somehow makes them more precious than if they had been read from a book.

Jemma said it didn’t matter if Fitz had a ring, but he disagreed. It only took Mack about four minutes to make a plain silver-colored band from a spare nickel, anyway. When Jemma slips it on his finger, letting her palm linger over his knuckles, and soaking up the electric warmth of his skin brushing hers, she feels the last piece of her recovery fall into place. She’d never be the same as the wide-eyed, fresh-out-of-Sci Ops Agent Jemma Simmons from four years ago. But eight months ago, she hadn’t believed she’d ever get back to a normal existence, and now she’s done a thousand times better.

 

Now she is finally, exactly, and completely where she belongs.

**Author's Note:**

> I have plans for at least a few more installments, but I'd also be happy to consider prompts! Cheers!


End file.
